“The conventions do not matter one little bit. Even in his fevered hours, so the girl had said, his tongue had not betrayed him. Wood, glancing angrily at her husband. In one of these seats, at the end of the aisle farthest removed from the chancel, the widow took her place, and addressed herself fervently to her devotions. He will not come. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. Looked all over that dratted convent of yours—or at least Trodger and the men did so—but no sign of them.
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